


Genius on the Hood, Psycho at the Wheel

by ghostboi



Series: Graveyard Digger, Coffin Case Sinner [14]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Obsession, Possessive Dean, Serial Killer Dean, Violence, don't fuck with Sammy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-16 21:18:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5841337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostboi/pseuds/ghostboi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were taillights and dust by the time the train reached number thirteen.<br/>(You don't fuck with Dean's Sammy)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Genius on the Hood, Psycho at the Wheel

**Author's Note:**

> [title from Nonpoint's "Lucky 13"]

[“you had to covet what was mine, didn’t you” – nin: ruiner]

 

“Did you know that thirteen is unlucky in western cultures, but a lot of other cultures find it to be the opposite?” 

“Yeah?” Dean raised his eyes from his work to glance at his little brother.

“Mmhmm,” Sam swung his legs back and forth from his perch on the Impala’s hood, careful to not kick the car as he did, “Some cultures think it’s a lucky number. To the Aztecs, it represented daytime and, I think, the sky. To the Greeks, the Goddesses. It’s sacred.”

“So this is a sacred moment, huh?” the elder brother teased the younger, eyes returning to his work. His green gaze shifted back to his brother, a soft smile quirking his mouth, as Sam said softly,

“Every moment with you is sacred, Dean.”

Dean dropped his knife to the ground and stood to cross the space that separated them. He caught the fifteen-year-old in his arms – Sam leaned into him eagerly – and pressed his mouth to his little brother’s, fingers tangling in Sam’s hair. He kissed the teen – long, hard, possessive – until they both had to part finally, panting for breath. 

“You’re perfect, Sammy,” Dean brushed his fingers down Sam’s cheek as his eyes worshipped his little brother’s face, lit by the moonlight and one hundred million stars, “So fuckin’ perfect.”

Sam shook his head, blush creeping up his cheeks. Dean could make him melt with his looks and his touches and his never-ending adoration.  
“You’re the perfect one,” he countered as he leaned in to brush his mouth against Dean’s. Dean shot him a grin and a wink and stole another kiss before crossing back to his work-in-progress.

Number thirteen, lying on the ground with a blood-stained gag in his mouth and ropes cutting into his bleeding wrists and ankles, they were so tight, had been an accident. Chance encounter. Serendipity, he had told Dean later. 

 

He had been standing on the poorly lit side of a skating rink here in SmallTown Kentucky less than an hour ago, waiting on Dean to join him (because who went to skating rinks and _didn’t_ make out?). He was staring out at the street in front of the rink, watching the people moving about out front, when some asshole had come around the side of the building. The man, at least a dozen years old than his big brother, had approached and asked him for a smoke. Sam had informed him he didn’t smoke and turned his attention back to the street; the next thing he knew, there was a hand over his mouth and an arm around his throat, and he was being dragged through the darkness behind the building. Stranger-Danger had expected an easy target: what he got instead was Dean Winchester.

The man had no more than reached the back of the building when he was jerked off the younger Winchester and slammed face-first into the brick. He had barely staggered two steps, blood pouring from his mouth and nose, when his head was slammed against the brick again. He went down with a dull thud.

Sam, shaking with adrenaline and fear, turned to face his brother. He could feel the other shaking with rage as Dean closed the short space between them and pulled him close. His brother ran searching hands over him, muttering beneath his breath and assuring himself that Sam wasn’t harmed.

After a cursory glance for survellience cameras, Dean tossed his car keys to Sam and told him, 

“Those tracks we crossed down the street? Drive to the crossing and turn up that gravel road beside it. Looks like it went all the way to the tunnel up there.” His brother nodded toward a train tunnel, which he could see from where he was standing. “I’ll meet you there.”

He nodded and watched as his brother pulled his knife and cut his attacker’s shirt down the front, then roughly jerked it off him. The elder Winchester rolled it up and, grabbing a handful of the downed asshole’s hair, crammed it into his mouth. He pulled it around Sam’s attacker’s head and tied it in the back, in a tight knot. The man stirred, tried to pull away from Dean, but failed in his endeavor. Dean jerked off his own belt and, pulling the man’s arms behind his back, looped the leather around them and jerked it tight.

Dean nodded to him and shot him a wink, then jerked the bleeding man to his feet. Sam watched as his brother shoved the gagged, bound man down the dirt path behind the building, which lead through a row of tall, scraggly bushes and down a small hill to the railroad tracks. The streetlights were blown or just not worth the effort back here, and he could barely see Dean by the time his brother shoved Sam’s attacker through the bushes.

He turned and, after glancing around to make certain Dean hadn’t had any witnesses, made his way to the Impala. 

 

Now Sam was sitting on the car’s hood, parked nearly half a mile from the nearest occupied building, which was the skating rink. There were some storage units and empty buildings along the streets that ran parallel on both sides of the tracks, but the skating rink was the only one on this block that was lit up.

Dean had the man whom had been unfortunate enough to choose Sam Winchester as his target laying on the tracks, draped face-up over one of the metal rails. His back was bowed where he was laying it, legs on the outer side of the rail and head on the inside. Dean had used lengths of rope from the Impala’s trunk to tie the man’s hands and ankles, then he had then wrapped another length around the man’s waist and beneath the rail he was draped across, binding him to it. That was right before he had joined Sam at the car to steal a kiss.

Now his big brother was kicking the hell out of the would-be paedophile-turned-victim. For the first two minutes, Sam heard pained grunts and muffled, barely audible cries. Then the man went silent. Dean continued to kick him for three or four minutes, before finally stepping away, breathing hard from exertion. His brother stared at the downed man for several seconds, then knelt next to him. He cut the ropes tying his ankles and wrists loose, pulling them off the man and tossing them between the rails. When finished, he moved off the tracks to join Sam at the car.

Dean moved to stand between Sam’s legs, back to the teen and eyes on the tracks. Sam draped himself over his brother’s back, chin on Dean’s shoulder and arm around his neck, to watch with him.

He was wondering if the bastard was dead when he saw movement. A shifting of the man’s head and shoulder as the stranger-attacker fumbled at the rope around his waist, his feeble effort of trying to free himself.

“Why’d you cut him loose?”

“Might be suspicious if his hands are tied when they find him, if there’s anything left,” the man answered as he leaned back against him. Sam wrapped a leg around his waist, pulling him closer.

He pressed his lips against the warm skin of Dean’s neck, a smile touching his mouth at the low rumble of approval from his brother’s chest. Dean reached back to grasp his thigh, fingers tracing patterns on his jeans. 

“Dean.”

“Hmm?” Dean tilted his head toward Sam, eyes still on the tracks.

“Does it get you hard?” there was only curiosity in his voice, “Doing things like that to them?” He pulled back slightly as Dean shifted, allowing his brother to turn and face him. The smirk on his brother’s mouth had him biting his own lip, and he slipped a hand beneath Dean’s shirt to run it up his side. Dean gripped his hips, pulled him to the edge of the hood. He could feel his brother’s erection pressing against him as Dean pulled him closer.

“Yeah,” the older man’s voice was low, gravel-rough, and the hottest thing Sam had ever heard, “Yeah, Sammy, it gets me hard sometimes, especially if you’re watching. Not the kills, not precisely. The power involved. The control. Taking theirs away and putting it all in my hands.” 

Sam swallowed hard, eyes slipping closed and lips parting, as his brother leaned in close to brush lips against his ear and continued, “Complete domination over them. Absolute control. Knowing that I can let them live and carry on or, by shoving my knife in just the right place,“ his voice dropped to a honeyed whisper, “pushing it in _deep_ , Sammy, and hard, and twisting _just the right way_ , I can end them.”

Sam stared, wide-eyed, and Dean pulled back slightly and smiled, teeth catching his bottom lip; he exhaled harshly as the older man brushed a finger over his mouth and whispered,  
“Breathe, Sammy.”

Breathe? Yeah, yeah, he could manage that. He swallowed, his entire body humming in desire from Dean’s words of moments before. In spite of the fact that his brother had been describing the act of _killing_ people.. it was one of the sexiest things he had ever heard. 

“Holy fuck, Dean,” he finally managed. His brother chuckled, and the very sound slipped down his spine and straight to his dick, sending a hard shudder through him.

He nearly whined at the teasing response,  
“We’ll save that for the motel room.” 

The sound of a distant train whistle kept him from crawling to his knees on the Impala’s hood and begging his brother to fuck him right here, right now. Dean leaned in and brushed their mouths together, then stepped back and instructed,  
“In the car. Time to go.”

He obeyed immediately and slipped down off the hood to move around to the passenger side. He watched from inside the car as Dean went back to the man on the tracks and knelt, knife in hand; a moment later, his brother was cutting off the gag, dropping it on the stranger’s inert form.

They were taillights and dust by the time the train reached number thirteen. 

 

Sam was packing up their things the next morning while his brother showered. He was half-watching the early edition newscast on the room’s old television set, when a headline on the screen caught his attention. He turned the volume up several notches, in time to hear the newscaster say,

_’--local man was struck by a train last night. Witnesses had indicated the man, whose name has not yet been released, was intoxicated. Law enforcement officials believe that may have contributed to the terrible accident –‘_

The television was down low again, and Sam had finished packing, by the time Dean had finished his shower. His big brother crossed the room, water trailing down his naked body (and damn, Sam couldn’t keep his eyes off him. His brother’s eyes flicked to the television briefly, reading the scrolling headline, and he asked,  
“Want me to turn it up?”

“No,” strong arms slipped around his waist and he was tugged back against the wet wall of muscle, “Don’t care about him. Only care about you, baby boy.” 

As lips painted his throat with heat and love, Sam decided thirteen wasn’t an unlucky number at all.


End file.
